Free On a Lee Shore by Elin Gregory

her tan sails golden in this brilliant light, was never completely out of sight, or not for long. Kit assumed that was how they had found the Hypatia. The Africa, the eyes spotting the prey and sending a signal—a light by night, pennants by day perhaps—to call up her consort.
    That is what I would do, given two such ships, Kit mused, but I would hope to better purpose and with a less odd crew.
    He had made a mental note of the number of the crew—a guess because he hadn’t yet seen them all—and had totted up their accents. There were Scots, Welsh, Irish, and a couple of French-speaking blacks, including one fine-looking older man who gave Kit a friendly nod as he passed. Kit thought he’d caught a word or two of Dutch, but English predominated, and the accent of home, of the West Country, was the one he heard most often.
    Which is proper because we do make the best sailors, he comforted himself.
    The thought of justifying piracy to Sir George or Sir William because the Cornish were just so damned good at it amused him, and he smiled as he set the last stitch on the run and began to turn the sail to patch around a cringle.
    “Smiling, that’s good.” Davy Forrest stooped to help him shift the canvas then sat cross-legged and produced his own palm. “Someone down there’s snoring like—like—I dunno what like, but I’d had enough sleep anyway. How are they treating you?”
    “I’m glad to see you, Davy, and could ask the same question, but I see that you’re not doing so badly.”
    Davy looked down at his new shirt and shrugged. “My stuff were rummaged, and I only had the one shirt so they gave me another one. They say watches take care of one another.” He began to set stitches, working with practiced speed. “So,” he repeated, “how are they treating you?”
    “With caution,” Kit said. “There’s usually someone keeping an eye on me. What they imagine I might do I have no idea. There must be close to seventy of them.”
    “Fifty-eight counting us,” Davy said and added with a grin, “but there’s these Scotch twins, see, so I guess that’s put your count out.”
    “Twins,” Kit snorted. “That would do it. Have you any idea where we are headed?”
    “Antigua,” Davy said. “But for now we’re lurking just off the main shipping lane to see if any other prizes come along. I heard say that Probert told them a new naval vessel is on its way out, so they want to get a sight of it to see if it will be a problem.”
    Sir George’s voice sounded in Kit’s head—Miranda, that was it. Our naval presence in St. Kitts. The Miranda was a new ship, a copper-bottomed beauty designed for these waters and carrying twenty-four guns. She’d be a match for either the Africa or the brigantine. She might be a match for them both together.
    “Yes,” he said, “they’d do well to worry. Davy, we’ve been aboard two days.”
    “Less’n that Kit,” Davy pointed out.
    “Well yes, but what I’m trying to say is that until we get to port we have no way of getting off this damned ship and back to where we belong. I just want you to know that if you have to show willing I’ll understand. There are times you have to do things you’d sooner not just to keep going, and it was clear to me you were a forced man. When we win free, I’ll bear witness to it.”
    Davy grunted, bending his head over his work. He had already half done the stitching around his cringle with neat, strong, even stitches. “Thanks, Kit,” he said after a minute. “And if we win free, I’ll do the same for you.”
    “No ifs about it,” Kit said. “My hand to my heart, if there’s a way, I’ll find it.”
    “Will you now?” Wigram could move quietly, Kit noted. “Thinking of leaving us already? Not good enough for you, aren’t we? Or is the good lieutenant pining for his mammy?”
    There was nothing to be said, so Kit set another stitch.
    “You wouldn’t want to lead young Davy astray now,” Wigram continued. “Not